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Poem by Rafael Woolf

There you were,Slowly losing the battle with age.You may die any month, now, God forbid.All it will take is a severe infection or a few more strokes.

It was Sukkos.I had brought in a rabbi to interpret whatever you said into Yiddish,But you were too intimidated by himTo talk.

The last words I said to you were, "Good Moed."When I kissed you goodbye, you kissed me back.That may have been the end.

Did you get my letter?

I sang to you in Yiddish,Song sheets in my hands.I talked to you.I played "Itsy-bitsy spider" with you,Played with you, I realize,As if you were a baby,Running my forefinger over your face,Pressing your nose and saying, "Bzzzzz."

I tickled you feet, because you used to love that,But at one point, you told me to stop,The only one of two times you spoke to me in English.